


The Living Corpse

by lorelai_la_lionne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, England - Freeform, F/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Unconventional Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorelai_la_lionne/pseuds/lorelai_la_lionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I fell in love with this story http://archiveofourown.org/works/1220638 from http://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady/profile and she deserves all the credit for the plot and characters. However, I felt like Mira's story was more expanded in my head.</p><p>"Sherlock is in need of a corpse and contacts a young woman who is almost too good at playing dead. The woman becomes rather resourceful for the detective who struggles with understanding human emotions; but can she keep her heart-rate slow; and what will happen if she doesn't? -And how does John cope with their strange relationship?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Yellow Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This_is_The_Phantom_Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The On-Call Corpse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220638) by [This_is_The_Phantom_Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady/pseuds/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady). 



> The original story is http://archiveofourown.org/works/1220638 from http://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady/profile

London bustled behind Mira as she firmly shut the door to her flat, sinking down to the floor in exhaustion. Her shoulder throbbed against the cool wood. She needed a distraction. With a huff, she dragged herself upwards and to the couch, turning on the television as she slumped against the faded tan upholstery. A chime came from her purse where it laid forgotten at the entrance.

With no remote, and no desire to get up to change the channel, she began to look around the flat. A creeping chill climbed up her spine leaving a wake of gooseflesh. She could not remember moving her picture frames, but they _had_ been moved. It was not that she had a sentimental arrangement of them, but having just moved flats she was familiar with the layout. The Eiffel tower spooned Big Ben, not the Cliffs of Moher.

Instead of agonizing over the feeling of being stalked again, her mind got caught on the lack of human condition in her “family photos”. The photos were all taken by her, of course, after her exodus from-- the chime came again.

“Bloody adverts. Why do I even sign up for those things?” She murmured to herself, clutching tightly to the arm of the couch as she retrieved her mobile. **The Yellow Cat at 8 -SH** Mira’s eyebrows rose and she worried her bottom lip. The second message simply read, **Don’t be late -SH** Was this a joke? An undercurrent of excitement swept her to the bedroom to look up the number. It was easier than expected-- a blog by none other than Dr John Watson; flatmate and shadow to the great Sherlock Holmes. “S. H.” She breathed out.

****

The Guinness numbed her anxiety at meeting the P.I. in such an uncouth establishment. Her legs were crossed primly in the booth seat beneath a thick layer of grey skirt. Still, her foot tapped the air without her consent. Perhaps if her day had not been spent in the company of others she could continue to throw up airs of propriety to keep herself separated.

Though she had spent much of the afternoon coming back to images of him on the Internet, Mira could not find him in the crowd. She checked the silver watch on her slight wrist. ‘One minute to showtime.’ She thought with a pang of dread. ‘What could he possibly want?’

At exactly 8pm Sherlock Holmes emerged, moving like snake for a mouse. Mira straightened her back and gave a warm smile, or she hoped she did. She extended a hand, but he ignored it. “You showed. Good. Stay here.” Her expression dropped as he walked towards the bar, her hand retreating to her thigh.

Sherlock returned with a small pitcher filled with ice water, “Put your hand in.” It was strategically placed closest to the other side of the booth, where he effortlessly slid in, eyes never leaving hers. Her arm outstretched once more, she clenched her hand into a fist and submerged it. Immediately his fingers were upon her wrist as if he were a nurse. Her nerves seemed to erase with this simple task.

Mira focused on her breathing, on sinking, willing her heart to slow and the pain to cease. Sherlock released his hold on her and looked down at the stopwatch application on his phone. “Questions?” He asked as an afterthought. “Too many.” It was too breathy to sound normal, but Sherlock was back to his experiment. “Is this.. an interview?” He was startled from watching her hand’s exciting colour display, “Very astute. Three minutes.”

“Why me?” The water sloshed as her arm began to tremble from keeping it raised. “Because you were told to meet me here and to perform a painful experiment and you complied.” Mira began to lose focus, the pain returning in spurts. “I don’t mind.” She replied after a few beats to regain her composure. “The pain, you mean, or the excitement, for that matter. I would dare to say you are enjoying yourself.”

With her free hand, Mira drank her pint to stall. “I have a job.” Sherlock grinned a knowing, evil smile, “You will take this one, though. Five minutes. How does your hand feel?” She shrugged, “It doesn’t.” Her gaze settled on the foam of her beer as he took her pulse again. “Your heart rate should be elevated. Six minutes. Why are you so calm?”

“Why are you so excited?” A tight smile was her only response. “What’s the job?” His long fingers returned to steeple under his chin. “I need a corpse. You can still feel this. You just ignore it. How?” The breath escaped her at this revelation, “You tell me.” He seemed pleased to be able to share with the class.

“You taught yourself to endure pain from a chronic back condition. In hospitals you learned to slow your pulse by using the monitor, probably scaring some nurses for fun. There’s more.. Pain has become pleasure for you. It became the one thing you were in control of. That is why you stopped fidgeting when you started. You believe you are the one in control now because I am exposing you to pain.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned back, satisfied with himself.

Mira’s hand rose from the pitcher of its own accord, and she unconsciously began smiling as discomfort enveloped her. “And now I’ve gone and burst your bubble.” He clipped. “Eight minutes seventeen seconds. Impressive.” She looked to her red hand and frowned, annoyed with herself, “I could have continued. So, how are you going to kill me? Stab my now paralyzed hand? I wouldn’t even know if you did.”

Sherlock, seeming disappointed, shook his head. “No, I need a _corpse_. Not a dead masochist. Come along, then.”


	2. Look Dead

Mira stood awkwardly in Sherlock’s flat while he sat in a strange position in his chair. He had not given her enough time to think. Had not even bothered to ask her to take the job or explain what it was any further. The cab ride had been silent and painful. Instead of reflecting on the strange events that unfolded, she internally recited pastry recipes.

“Lie down on the floor. There.” He pointed to an open space between the coffee table and armchairs. “Look dead. Feel dead.” She moved to where he had pointed, but did not get on the floor. “The interview is still on; this is the practical part.” His mouth widened into a smile as she, once again, complied. He moved to place her in the right positioning and as he towered over her, she began to think of a lake. Mira’s body sank slowly in the peaceful waters, she could still breathe.

Sherlock stepped back to inspect their work and nodded as if to say, ‘It is good.’ She couldn’t see him, her eyes were closed and her mind was exploring depths unknown. There was a dull throbbing sensation coming from her hand. A fish? Plant? It did not matter to her. Children splashed in a roped off area. She knew rather than sensed a familiar figure on the shore, too dignified to slosh in Buttermeere. Mossy mud squished between her toes as she walked along the bottom. 

They were both startled by a stage right entrance from John Watson, but they had parts to play. Sherlock had moved back to his chair at some point- how long had they been like this?- he hardly glanced at his flatmate. Mira had not stirred, though she felt herself beginning to surface; her pulse rising. “Sherlock, you didn’t just smuggle it out of a morgue, right? Christ. When you said you were going out to find a corpse, I thought you were speaking in riddles.”

Sherlock, still studying the display before him, huffed a sigh, “No, John. The morgue is not a library. Though I did ask for a card.” His indignant explanation left Dr Watson even more anxious.. and intrigued. “I’m still alive.” Came a small voice from the supposed dead girl. “Christ!” John jumped back looking paler than before.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Sherlock commented dryly, standing. “John, this is Mira. I’ve hired her to be my personal corpse.” John grimaced. “Sounds awful. In less frightening words?” He spared a small, apologetic smile in her direction. Mira propped herself up on her elbows, “Does this mean the interview is over? I’ve gotten the part?”

“Yes, as long as you remain useful. When I send for her she’s to come and play dead. She’s the next best thing- a living corpse.” Sherlock answered quickly. His eyes bored into hers, waiting for her to react. Her heart had begun to race at his comment. A living corpse? He moved to help her up, “Take deep breaths." He shook her slightly, "You need to calm back down.”

John pushed Sherlock aside and began to assess his new patient. “What have you given her? What have you done to her, Sherlock?” His voice was not strained, but calm and in control. Mira put her red hand over her chest. Sherlock’s eyes brightened, “Brilliant. That way you know you’re actually breathing.” 

“Sherlock!” John was ushering her to Sherlock’s now vacant seat. “She hasn’t had anything. I might have just.. given her a fright. It’s just a panic attack. She’ll be fine.” John sent him a withering look, “Fine? _Really_. She needs water.” Sherlock seemed put out, “She managed to fool a doctor into believing she was dead. Of course she’ll be fine. Already her breathing has returned to normal.”

“Water! Now!”

“I’m alright.” Mira let herself be looked over by the doctor as she drank the water Sherlock placed in front of her. “Your hand is red,” John took ahold of it, “and burning hot.” Sherlock, standing behind John’s kneeling figure, made no move to respond. She looked up at him and then to the door, “Ice water. A drinking game.”

Sherlock smiled broadly, “She won. Eight minutes and seventeen seconds!” John turned to give him an incredulous look, “You _are_ aware that that experiment is only supposed to last for three minutes?” His expression turned dark, glaring at Sherlock as he looked at his hands, “Seven minutes is the max. And your hands are fine! You can’t-”

“I didn’t force her hand in. I had to test her.” He began to pace, “I want my chair back.” Mira rose, eager to have some sort of upper hand- even if it was only to be taller than John and stand above Sherlock. “I’m a big girl, John.” She assured him as Sherlock took his seat. John moved to stand between them, unconsciously trying to protect the stranger. “It’s funny, anyway. The iced numbs you but the blood is warm inside the vessels as it’s pumped in..” She traced the blue veins on top of her hand, leaving a smoldering trail of pain.

“Why do you need to hire out? Isn’t that what your mind palace is for?” John chose to ignore the tenor of Mira’s comments. “I like her, and I can run experiments.” John groaned, “More experiments.” Sherlock scoffed, "Go home, John." But she did not mind the experiements, ‘He likes me. He knows me, and he likes me.‘ Sherlock grew bored of his game, “There’s an envelope just there,” he pointed, “and I’ll text you when you are needed.”


	3. Dressing the Part

Mira expected the feeling of being watched to go away now that she knew the identity of said stalker. Still.. many hours following her strange encounter were spent looking over her shoulder and staring at her mobile. It remained silent.

The envelope had been haphazardly stuffed in a drawer full of odds and ends; bills mostly. Her ringer was at full volume in her pocket at any given time. She had continued going to hospital as a temp, but had given notice to the agency who was leasing her. If this went belly-up she would be welcomed back, she knew that much. She would miss trailing her charge; taking the good doctor’s notes and running errands. But someone would take her place.

Her phone gave a chime, but after eleven days she had stopped jumping to answer every automatic text message from the shop. She offhandedly hoped that there was a sale on eggs as she looked down at her phone. **Baker St. Now - SH** She felt blank and wondered if her outfit would be acceptable.

The questions she had tried to shove in that too-full-drawer full of faded receipts, cinema stubs, and loose change burst open. Sheets spilled out, filling her bedroom, leaving no room to breathe. Her hand flew to her chest. The envelope rested atop the mountain of paper, the sound of coins rolling across the hardwood kept her attention. She was on a lake. She was sinking. She was shoving that too thick envelope of questions back into the drawer with fervor.

When her breathing returned to normal she grabbed her purse without bothering to change outfits. The off-white cotton shirt yielded easily to her form and the soft denim clung comfortingly to her skin. Her “slobbing” clothes would have to do, she decided. It would not help her keep anyone at bay, but this was Sherlock and she doubted there was much she could hide from him. Besides, if she did not leave now, she was unsure if she could ever face Sherlock Holmes again.

****

“Hello, John.” Mira’s round eyes met his almost apologetic demeanor. The crisp afternoon air easily pierced through her shirt; she had forgotten a jumper. “May I come in?” He lumbered back towards the stairs, “Yes, of course. Erm, he’s upstairs. He’d.. like for you to do your thing there. He’s being a bit mysterious about it.” His cheeks were a bit red and he wrung his hands together as he fell behind on the trek to the flat.

Without much hesitation she laid down in the same spot as before, beginning her exercise. She hardly noticed as John knuckles rapped against a door somewhere. Or when both men entered the living space. “Why do you never do as I say?” Sherlock exclaimed. He was exceptionally irate about the blunder. Time was of the essence in this case. “It’s not okay to ask of her. We’re strangers and, and, an-”

“Of course it’s okay to ask. Mira,” her attention focused solely on his penetrating voice, “take your clothes off.” John scoffed, “Well, that’s hardly asking.” Sherlock adjusted his charcoal trousers and sniffed, “I gave you a chance to ask. It is always in your best interest to- keep those on, thank _you_.” She had stripped to her smooth, white bra and black boy shorts.

The carpet beneath her felt unfathomably dirty now that she was so exposed. Her face stung at the implication in his remark. How offensive her body was to him if the experiment was not kept completely clinical. As if she _wanted_ to be naked for his _attention_. “Stop getting snippy. Be dead.” Sherlock promptly exited towards the kitchen. John let out a long breath, kneading the skin between his brows.

“And I suppose I’m to knock on your door again?” He exasperatingly called out. Mira began to sink. “Always the dramatics. Sorry about all this.” She nodded slightly, letting herself be pulled down by otherworldly creatures. “I’ll just..” His footsteps retreated to the bedroom once more. She let her breath and pulse slow to a crawl. Her pet goldfish was there today. It had grown to the size of her forearm. Its scales brushed past her hand, inviting her deeper.

“-but the tox screens were all clean-”

“-it’s obvious, isn’t it? She knew the murd-”

A snapping sound next to her ear, “Turn towards the couch and cry.” Mira let a photograph slip through the drawer as she began to surface. Her hands trembled as tears blurred her vision and pooled at her nose. “He was sitting on the bed. John?” Sherlock gestured for him to sit upon the couch. “She had been crying. More than a woman scorned.”

“Lovers?” John questioned, perched on the edge of his seat. “She thought so, anyway.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “All of them did.” John coughed uncomfortably, “You don’t think he.. forced her to undress?” Sherlock kneeled beside her, taking her wrist in hand. She panicked, she could not stop her heart completely and she could hardly keep down the rate when she was crying. “This was playful. The clothes were strewn all about the room. No, no. It was all fun and games until..”

John rolled his eyes at the dramatic pause, “Until?” Sherlock stood abruptly, “Until he broke their hearts! Quite literally.” Mira wiped her eyes while he was distracted, but continued to reminisce. “Can she stop crying now? And Broken Heart Syndrome? That’s a bit farfetched.”

“Oh, yes, Mira get dressed. Tell me. You’ve had your heart broken, yes? It hurts, doesn’t it? In your chest.” She drew a deep breath and nodded, gathering her clothes. “But four girls in four weeks. It’s a very rare condition, Sherlock.” John drawled, leaning back into the sofa, unimpressed with the conclusion. “They were frail and young. Very frail and very young. He was a knight saving them from darkness and triviality. Then when they are most vulnerable he breaks their heart!”

With her dignity a bit more intact she stood fully clothed fanning her face, hoping the redness would subside. Sherlock paraded into the kitchen and John followed, slightly more on board with the theory. Mira looked wistfully at the kitchen entrance, but the two men paid her no mind as they continued the conversation. She plucked her purse from the coffee table and shuffled to the door. “I said you could get dressed, not leave.” Came Sherlock’s voice veering after her, with an eerie ring.


	4. Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized how short this chapter is, but that's because I combined most of it with another. Tried to keep the chapters roughly the same as the original story.

“Come in here.” Mira bit her lip and proceeded to the kitchen. “Now, same character, but this time you’re alive. What would make you cry like that, on the floor in front of your lover? A man who saved you? How do you end up naked on the floor?” She leaned against the far table with John to her left and Sherlock across from her, a cluttered table her only barrier. And that was hardly any protection.

Sherlock’s fingers plucked imaginary flowers from his chin, he was deep in thought. “Well, I w-would be nervous. This is my first time with him-” Mira sputtered, crocodile tears had given way to a full fledged crying jag. “I said act not break down. Focus.” John looked intently at Mira, she was the key demographic in the case, after all. “He would tell me something bad. He never cared for me and was this really all I had to offer?” Her hands began to tremble.

“Maybe that he could get it anywhere. He already was.” Mira was no longer sure if she was acting or retelling. “I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t pretty enough. I wasn’t-” Sherlock jumped up, elated, his mind moving fast, “He was more than a savior. He knew how to apply the right amount of pressure to crack their brittle hearts. He was their therapist! Women often confuse being listened to as being loved. Oh, he was smart. A murder by words! John, phone Lestrade. We’ll meet him-”

In his haste he had walked out without John. “Do you need some money for a cab, or..?” Mira shook her head, wiping her eyes. “No, thanks. Go on, then.” She smiled warmly behind the salt. He hesitated, but went trotting after Sherlock. She heaved a shaking breath and removed her grip from the table behind her. ‘You screwed up.’ The room seemed to vibrate around her. She staggered towards the stairs, but the doorway gave her pause.

_I said you could get dressed, not leave!_

Was she expected to stay until they returned? John had mentioned a cab, but as earlier proved John was not always right.. Mira shuddered at the thought of going out into the cold again. The night would not be any more pleasant. The phone buzzed in her pocket. **Envelope on music stand. Borrow a coat for walk home. -SH**

Was this to be her penance? Sherlock had seemed irritated with her water display. Had dismissed her via text message. Her face flared in embarrassment and anger. Who was he to tell her to walk home? He had changed her job description! Had pushed her. There was not a genteel bone in his body and she suddenly resented her position. The heat drained from her face as she pocketed the envelope in a coat found by the couch.

‘I’m just lashing out. He was right about me. I won’t do to be angry.. he did offer his coat.’ She walked home.


	5. Ouch!

A day passed with no messages. The new envelope sat with its brother, unopened and forgotten. Her new coat was hung with care on her desk chair. Mira focused mainly on rejuvenation. She was going to be zen. She was going to be in control. She was not going to be predictable to one frustratingly accurate Sherlock Holmes. His command over her, she reflected, was unnerving. 

_And you complied._  

Why had she? Days passed. She pieced herself together again. Her resolve thickened into a full coat of armor. Her friend went with her everywhere. She had not let her friend out in.. she lost track of time. The sun had disappeared as she laid on her floor. The smell of burned popcorn lingered in the flat. She fingered a cool metal in her dress pocket. Turning it over and over again, contemplating. 

There was a persistent knocking, she hardly noticed. “Mira!” Sherlocks voice was strained. Mira stirred, “Coming.” She clambered up and slowly opened to a clearly annoyed detective. He pushed his way past her and fell into her rocking chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Sherlock studied her, “You were summoned.” His eyebrows twitched. “Oh.” She closed the door and went to her phone. 

** Baker St. Urgent. Semi-formal attire. -SH**

** Taking your time. -SH** 

** I’m coming over. -SH**

“Oh.” Sherlock held his hand out, “ _Oh, oh, oh._ Is that all you have to say? I am not a patient person, Mira. Hand it over.” The days of resolving and plotting had proved worthless. She delicately placed her phone in his outstretched fingers, “What do you want with my mobile?”   
  
“Changing my alerts to be _loud_ and _unique_. I won’t have you missing my summons again.” He grumbled, fingers flying over her screen. She sighed, “The volume is on already. I suppose I thought it was someone else.” Sherlock threw the phone to her and stood. “You don’t get messages from other people.” Mira gave an embarrassed half-smile, “Adverts.” 

“Ah.” Sherlock settled comfortably into the small flat, enjoying his deductions. “Should I go get ready then? You could pick out the outfit if that would suit your purposes better.” Mira ached to collect her thoughts on everything, but the detective was of the fast-paced variety. He strode to the bedroom closet and began to throw her outfit together. 

“This will do. Fix your makeup.” She followed his voice to the back, sighing, “You can’t fix what wasn’t there. Damn!” She took in the outfit laid out on the bed, “Was your victim a hooker?” Sherlock grinned with all his teeth, “You’re the victim, dear. I’m buying you dinner.” 

“Oh.” Mira’s face screwed up, “Why?” Sherlock turned away from her, checking out the window, “John is making me. Seemed to think I was a bit.. harsh. We could always pretend to go, but I can salvage the night afterwards.” She softened, fingering the cool faux leather corset. “Well, thanks.” Sherlock snorted, “John is clueless.”

After a short argument on appropriate dinnerware- no that is not semi-formal  at all \- they walked a short ways to a deli down the block where she normally ordered takeaway. Her skirt bunched up as she sat, and her crisp white blouse felt tight around her bodice. Her closet was more of a theatre dressing room than a human’s intimate apparel. She had no style to speak of, preferring soft cottons and worn denim. Her clothes embraced her firmly, not taking the breath out of her lungs like the secretary costume. 

Still, the uncomfortableness gave way to a cool demeanor. Her back was straight, though the booth was curved and comfy. Her hands folded delicately on her lap though her right ear itched. This battle would be won. Mira gave a warm smile to the server, ordering a small ham sandwich with a side of fruit and cream. Sherlock waved the gentleman off, shifting his weight on the vinyl cushion. The noise caused her to squint in annoyance, and gave him a satisfied smile. 

“Not hungry?” He stayed silent, boring his eyes into hers. She pursed her lips, “Well, what would you like to talk about?” Sherlock’s gaze shifted to the window, “I have nothing to say.” Mira sighed and fished her phone out of her coat pocket. The sandwich arrived after a few levels of her favourite game. “Thank you.” She gave the server another smile and turned to her meal. The fruit was easy enough, but the flaky croissant stuck in the back of her throat. 

“Hurry up.” Sherlock snapped, as she picked apart a piece of lettuce. “I’m not hungry anymore. We can leave if you’re ready.” He pushed the plate further towards her, “Yes, you are. You’ve just got an eating disorder.” A sharp laugh erupted from her, “Are you mental? I just don’t like eating in public.. alone. Most girls don’t, you know.” He looked affronted at her correction, “Fine.” He grabbed the uneaten half of her sandwich and took a large bite. 

Placated, she began to take small bites again. “Would you like any dessert tonight?” The server had appeared over her shoulder. “Just the check.” The meal concluded and they caught a cab to Baker Street. Mira had barely fitted her coat over the back of John’s chair when he was steering her towards the couch. “Clear off the coffee table and then lay on your back.” He exited quickly, with a hint of excitement. 

She began moving papers and cups to the other table. “Alright, then. Lie down. I need to use this on you to compare it to some old data I have on a cadaver.” He had returned with a black riding crop. “Wh-what? A riding crop? On a cadaver?” She sat up from the short table. “Don’t worry, just a few short blows.” He tested the strength and buoyancy of the crop in his hands as she laid back down. 

“Ready?” She shook her head frantically, “Give me a minute.” He nodded slowly, retreating to his chair. Mira could block that out and endure it. Her fingernails, digging into the legs of the table, began to relax as she swam in that crystal clear lake. “You will have endured worse.” Sherlock assured her. “And you would know?” She breathed unevenly. “I was drugged, but yes. Once.” The crop sang as it struck the air. Sherlock noted when she returned to the corpse state and rose. 

Mira tucked her tongue behind her teeth and clamped down to avoid drawing blood. Her muscles relaxed as she let her eyes slide past Sherlock to the fireplace. The first blow hit the topmost part of her right thigh, she wondered vaguely if he had hiked up her skirt or if it was hitting the stuffy cloth. No, the second blow she listened for and heard the sound of flesh being hit. 

Sherlock zeroed in on his experiment. He had five zones. One for five hits, four hits, three, etc. He did not consider that perhaps he should stick to one leg, but Mira raised no complaints. With four strikes left, Sherlock noted that John had entered and yelled, “Stop!” Mira was taken out of the depths at his exclamation and began to whimper as Sherlock continued. 

“Done. Take a seat and I’ll make notes.” He smiled down at her, but the smile was not for her benefit. He was pleased with his progress. As he zipped to his bedroom to store the crop and grab his moleskin notebook, John helped Mira to his armchair. “I swear I’ll kill him.” Sherlock overheard her respond as he was waltzing back, “I volunteered, John. Don’t worry.” He deposited his notebook next to his chair and grabbed a wooden chair from the table. “Put your legs up. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a scientific study, John.” Mira did as she was told, then laid her head back and closed her eyes. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Her leg throbbed and felt heavy, but it was strangely numb at the same time. John paced behind Mira, shooting Sherlock looks. “Yes?” He drawled, not looking away from his notes. “You’re abusing her! You- you- you’re taking advantage! This is not good, Sherlock!” His voice gradually became a shrill shout, disturbing Mrs. Hudson below. Mira opened an eye to look at John above her, “I’m fine.” Sherlock all but stuck out his tongue as he finally looked at John, “See? Now can you please be quiet? I’d hate to waste a good bruise.” He pointed his black pen at the red discoloration forming on her legs.

John stood still, his arms crossed, observing the two. “Did you at least take her out?” Mira nodded. A high-pitched voice cut through the silence that had settled. “Would you like some tea, boys?” A slight woman bustled into the sitting room with a tray and two tea cups. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John fell into step behind her to the kitchen. “Didn’t realize you had company. I’ll get another cup.”

An aggravated sipping wafted from behind her. “It’ll be alright dear,” Mrs Hudson had returned, handing her a teacup. Mira smiled at her kind gesture. “Not a client.” Sherlock mumbled, “An experiment.” He rubbed his chin. She shook her head, “You boys.” Her thick heels thunked back down the stairs. Mira downed the tea almost instantaneously, feeling herself begin to tire out. Sherlock prodded one of the sore spots, reminding her of the pain, “Warm.”

“Do you even realize that this right here, this is a human being?” John bristled from the kitchen. “Of course I do.. fair bit of swelling already.” He glanced down for the time. “A _living_ human being?” John, exasperated, gestured towards her as he circled back to the proceedings. “Precisely the point!” Mira’s small smile had tensed slightly, “Look at that. Two boys fighting over me. It’s like primary all over again.”

“You’re using humour to deflect the pain.” Sherlock retracted his probing fingers from her thigh. “Spoilsport.” An hour of research on the discolouration proved to be boring for Mira. John had retreated to his quarters long ago. “You can leave, but I want a photo at the top of every hour. Here.” He thrust an envelope into her lap and moved the chair propping up her legs. They fell to the floor with a painful thud.

“And leave my coat. You can take a cab.” He ushered her out the door and slammed it as soon as she was out. The cold air would have been nice for her legs, but she took his words for advice and decided to enjoy a warm ride home. **Purse at home. Money in envelope. -SH** They had very nearly arrived when the text message came- a new, annoying alert. How had he known she had never opened them? She paid the cabbie and went inside.

She had assumed it was money. They felt contaminated to her, though. She had enough savings before she would have to use them. And she would wait until it was a necessity. The picture taking kept going until about 2 o’clock when she fell asleep. **Need picture. -SH** Did he ever rest? **Need sleep. -MO** She shot back, with another photo. **Will wake you in an hour. -SH** And so it went for the next 36 hours. She was too tired to think of how tender her legs felt.

Not long after her sleep schedule had returned to normal, she had begun to forget about her legs, garnering strange looks at market from her dress. A strange number was calling her phone. With some trepidation she answered. “Hello?” Someone coughed on the other end, “Mira? This is John Watson.” She relaxed into the bed. “Oh, how did you get my number?”

“Sherlock.” She wondered how _that_ conversation went. “Alright, well, what can I do for you?” She threw back the quilt and sat up with a yawn. “I think you should quit.” He said abruptly. “Oh..” She wasn’t surprised. John had a white-knight quality about him, “Is that all?” Her tone implied that the conversation was over. “No! He’s not.. I can’t even be around him all the time. He loses his grip sometimes. That thing with the riding crop was out of line.”

“I know what I’m dealing with. I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t think I could handle it.” She bit her lower lip. Technically, she had consented by taking the job. Or, she didn’t say no to the job. Well, she kept going back. “Do you? I just don’t think.. He’s not safe to be around. For you.” She let out a sigh, “Goodbye, John. Thank you.” She fell back into her bed. **He would have pouted if I stopped him. -SH**

 **Fine. -MO** Enclosed was another picture.


	7. Flirt With Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been watching my store for a week while the manager is on vacation. I may actually explode from stress. Was nice to finally relax with this :)

A fortnight of radio silence and suddenly she was in a tight velvet dress throwing herself at men. She adjusted the stiff collar and scanned the bar. Two fingers of whiskey slid down her throat feeling more like a life vest than a vice. Sherlock’s instructions were brief. Be sexy. Be noticed. She had not looked at the business cards given to her. Instead she played a game; based on the gentlemen’s reactions, she would deduce her career. It wasn’t a very hard game. 

Her gaze fixed upon the mirror behind the bartender. Sherlock sauntered from the glass doors to the bar, choosing a stool two seats from Mira. He didn’t have to instruct her. Feeling daring, she moved towards him with her shoulders back and her hips swaying more than normal. “Hello, handsome.” Sherlock looked up at her with a neutral expression, “Can I help you?” She put an elbow on the bar; her other hand tucked stray hairs away from his face. “Buy me a drink? I’m lovely company.” 

Sherlock nodded and signaled the bartender, “Two of what she’s having.” The woman confirmed Mira’s previous order and set to pouring two neat whiskeys. “What’s your name?” Mira bit her lip, scooting even closer to him. “Sherlock. Do you come here often?” She gave a light laugh as Sherlock rifled through his wallet, “I’m new. Have you ever heard what people say about big hands like yours?” The bartender set the glasses in front of them and took his money. “I’m no-” 

Mira put both hands on the back of his neck and kissed him. She drew a card out of her peacoat pocket while standing back up. “My card.” He took the card in one hand and the drink in another. He read as if it was what he was hoping for. She threw back her own glass and put it upside down on the bar. “Are you free now, then?” She nodded, a slow smile spreading. “Haven’t got all night.” He took a sip from his drink and placed it back still half full. 

The sounds of the city greeted them as they left. “Are they looking?” He asked as he fondled her while they hailed a cab. “The press.” She tried to look around discreetly, “Ah. Yes.” A cabbie stopped in front of them, “So, I’m a prostitute now, then?” She fought the urge to wipe her mouth off as she shut the car door behind her. “Now?” The look in his steel, green eyes gave her no reprieve. Finally she pulled out her phone. 

“You’ll have to stay until morning, of course.” She gave a distracted nod, not bothering to protest. “My uncle found prostitutes disgusting, but we’d always watch them for a while in the city.” Mira remembered him recoiling from one’s touch as they passed her by on the street. But he found most people disgusting. “Fascinating. Now tell me, how does that make you feel?” Sherlock’s scathing voice felt like hot water to her neck. 

“You’re impossible.” Her lips pursed. “How did you find me, Sherlock?” The cab pulled up to 21B. “In a moment.” They left the cab and went up to his flat. “Where’s John?” She wondered aloud, sitting on the couch. “Finishing up with Mary.” Sherlock stood at the window, “I looked through your hospital’s records. Undiagnosed heart conditions. A handful of cases had debilitating pain as well.” Mira sighed, “Oh.” 

Sherlock picked up the violin and began to play. “John will be back soon. We need him.”


	8. A Favour

John came in after six minutes of Saint-Saens.  He lingered in the door, assessing the situation. “Brought my laptop.” Mira looked up, startled by the abrupt change of pace. “I thought you preferred Germans.” Sherlock scoffed, “Are you asking about girls or composers? The Danish are full of surprises. Never underestimate a French opus.” Mira’s eyebrows furrowed and she leaned back into the couch. “She’s Irish, though.” John looked between them. 

Sherlock ignored the comment, “You need to update your blog.” John moved to the table. Mira began quietly rolling her shoulders. “Why?” Sherlock had moved to stand by his armchair. “It would be helpful. You might mention you’re jealous of the pretty lady in my bedroom.” John gave a short, humourless laugh, “Jealous? No.” 

“Well, lie about the pretty part then.” John threw him a look, “That’s not what I meant. How is _that_ going to sound natural. My god, what will Mary think.” The two exchanged looks, Sherlock smiled with an unusual depth of sincerity while John burst out laughing. “I’ll just mention that it’s a strange turn of events. They’ll put it together.”

“ _In a strange turn of events, Sherlock Holmes came home tonight with a woman. Pretty sure she is not a client, but have a feeling a case might come soon._ ” Mira had not moved from the couch, focusing on the pain in her back. It was more comfortable than the conversation, at any rate. “Why do you want the media to think you’re a prostitute?” John directed at her. “Because!” Sherlock’s short response caused him to frown. “I wasn’t asking you.” 

“Are you quite finished? You have somewhere you need to be.” John gave a smug smile and leaned back in the wood chair, “Nope.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I promise not to whip her too hard this time. The bruise is already gone. What are you worried about? I was doing her a favour.” John became so furious he laughed, “A favour! How is _that_ a favour? This isn’t a joke, Sherlock.” 

“Because it took her mind off another pain.” Sherlock flicked his eyes towards the woman. John’s head cocked as he looked to Mira, taking in her actions. “How’s your shoulder?” Sherlock prodded, taking a few steps towards the kitchen. She became still. “Knots? I can take care of that if you’d like.” John offered, abandoning his laptop to go to her. The kindness helped her to find her voice again. “No, that won’t help. Thank you.” 

“What have you tried?” He crossed his arms and furrowed his eye brows. Mira gave a tight smile, “I already have a doctor, John.” Sherlock glared at her from across the room. “As far as you’re concerned, John is your doctor. Answer his questions.” Mira hurtled forward, her hands shaking, and snapped, “What does that make you, my disease? Yes, please, John. Cure me. He’s debilitating.” 

“Your god.” He smirked. She threw herself back on the couch, “Mussolini.” John laughed, “Your condition is really none of my business. I’m sorry.” She crossed her legs, putting her hands between them, and gave a nod. Her phone rang, she looked at the caller and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “I need to take this. Privately.” John coughed, “You can use my old room.” Sherlock made a strangled noise. “That’s not entirely feasible at the moment. And neither is stepping out, in case some press are already waiting.” Mira pressed accept and brought the phone to her ears, “Hullo. Can you hold for one second, please?” 

 “What have you done to my room?” John started towards Sherlock as Mira slipped past the kitchen to the bedroom. The two men heard a soft click as it shut behind her. Sherlock sighed, “It’s not your room, John. And I needed a bigger space for experiments. Some of the network have been participating in a study I’ve st-” He was cut off by a frustrated exclamation from John. “Nevermind. Sherlock.” He tried grabbing the detective’s attention as he paced around the room. “Sherlock!” Finally he looked at John. 

“What’s wrong with her? And why are you treating her so terribly. I’d think you hate her, but then you’d have to be emotionally invested.” Sherlock chuckled, “I thought it wasn’t your business?” He commented dryly. John raised his eyebrows and waited. Sherlock glanced towards the back room and lowered his voice considerably, “It’s a somatoform disorder.” John gave him a blank look. “A pain disorder- psychosomatic. The pain is real, it has been for a long time, but there’s nothing wrong with her muscles. Or her neurology. The hospital where I found her medical records indicate a perpetuated childhood injury.”

John turned to look at the empty hallway. “PTSD?” Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, “Not like you, and not post-traumatic stress. Though I think stress does play a factor in it.” A light turned on behind John’s eyes and he whirled around to face him. “Have you been _deliberately  exacerbating_ her stress levels? Christ, Sherlock. This is too much. I’m taking her home.”

Sherlock grabbed his arm, his face grave, “She may be in danger.” John ripped his arm away and gave him a searching look. “I really am looking out for her.” Mollified by the sincerity, John went to pack his belongings. “Fine, but you should start showing it better. You seem absolutely mad about this case.” Happy that the discussion was over, Sherlock plopped down in his chair. “I’m opening the flat up for clients tomorrow.” John nodded, “I can come after work.” 

The bedroom door opened, Mira’s heels got louder as she returned to the couch. “Still in pain?” John asked, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. She shook her head, “Not really. Though I am a bit knackered.” John nodded, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She nodded a goodbye. Sherlock ignored them both. “He’s, uh,” John had crossed to the doorway, “in his mind palace. Might just make yourself comfortable there. Night.” 

For a few moments, Mira sat awkwardly waiting for Sherlock to snap back from.. whatever a “mind palace” was. After realizing it would be a while, she did as John suggested. Kicking off her heels she went horizontal and closed her eyes. 


	9. No Comments!

**You could have used a fake number. -MO**

Mira spent the better part of the next two days screening calls from reporters. There were already photos of her leaving Baker Street circulating the local tabloids. Her voicemail box was full. She listened, but didn’t delete any. She didn’t want to get anymore. There was money in ‘spilling all’, it seemed, though no one gave an exact amount. 

**At least I look fit. -MO**

Normally, she was not so forward, but Sherlock was ignoring her again. She shut down her computer and television, content with baking for the rest of the day. Frank Turner crooned throughout the kitchen as she started a batch of pumpkin cream cheese muffins. Her apartment felt hollowed out. ‘I should adopt a cat.’ But the thought of another creature depending on her gave her a flare of anxiety. She picked up her phone to distract herself. 

**You could tell me why I’m going along with this...? -MO**  

**I don’t have time to give you a psychoanalysis. Do talk to a few journalists. -SH**

The response was quick. She frowned, **I meant why you want me to do this. -MO** ,but answered the next five phone calls. The last call was allegedly one of the gentlemen she gave her card to. “The same treatment I gave Sherlock Holmes?” She gave a seductive laugh, “Darling, you couldn’t handle that.” The attitude she had been exerting was exhausting, but made her feel confident. Despite her usual unease with talking on mobiles. Maybe she would do her nails later. The oven dinged. 

**I hope you’re saying more than “no comment”. -SH**

She bridled at the text message. All of the phone conversations had been more than satisfactory, though not very revealing. The muffin tray was heating her free hand to an uncomfortable point. Her phone fell to the table top with a clatter, and she stormed out the door. Only there was someone waiting for her. Startled, she dropped the tray of muffins. “Mira O’Meara?” A jolt of laughter escaped her, as it always did, when hearing her name. 

“I’m afraid I’m all tied up at the moment.” She smiled with all her teeth and went to move past the gentleman. “Were you tied up last night with Sherlock Holmes?” She slammed the door behind her and gave a light giggle, “Well, I could tell you _stories_ , but that wouldn’t be very nice.” The man’s eyes grew hungry, “So you aren’t denying it?” A hound smelling blood. It disgusted her, “I’m denying this conversation. Step aside or I’ll be forced to call for help.” 

Their eyes never lost connection as he cornered her against the door. “Of course.” His too-thin lips were inches from her face. His greying temples seemed to pulsate. “Tell me, was it all for the money?” He asked with venom. Mira threw her fist into his gut, “Yes. Yes, it was.” 

 


	10. Blood Doesn't Lie

At Sherlock’s behest, Mira wore a light shade of red lipstick and her hair down in soft curls. The feeling of being stalked came back in full force, but this time it felt warranted. For the most part, she could go to the shop or cafe without being recognized, but a few people stared. Reporters had spun wild, speculative articles of their affairs across London. Her face was one of anonymity, though. Her boring superpower. 

He had been by a few times and had her stop in, but they were unmemorable. The pairing was sure to die off in the press soon. ‘How long could the world care about London’s most ineligible bachelor?’ She wondered, feeling smug. A pinch brought her out of her thoughts. John was drawing blood from her right arm. “How often do you donate?” He asked politely. “Oh, not often enough. My iron count has always been a bit low. I knew about the submerged veins because of how often I was at hospital, though. If that’s why you’re wondering.” 

“I’m O Negative.” She mentioned offhandedly. “I should probably donate more often, but I hate eating liver for breakfast…” John nodded, “You could always get iron tablets at the chemist.” Mira smiled softly, “I take them about a week before the appointment.” He laughed, “Such dedication. Not afraid of needles then?” Sherlock glanced up from his work, “Not afraid of needles? Are you actually that dense? Look at her!” 

Mira pursed her lips, knowing he meant the myriad of white lines on her arm. “Yes, I noticed. Some people have manners, though, Sherlock. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it.” Sherlock gave a short huff of breath. “It’s alright, John. They’re proof that I made it. That I’m alive.” John pulled the needle out and put a cotton ball over the area. “Alive, yes..” Sherlock was already distant, holding his hand out for the vial. 

John handed it over, slapped a bandaid on, and elevated her arm. “I don’t think we have any biscuits. Maybe some juice.” He opened the fridge, “Sherlock! Ugh. How can you stand this?” Mira peeked in from the stool. A human hand was squeezed between a block of cheese and a bag of grapes. Her stomach rolled and she looked away. “Why do you need my blood, anyway? Thought you already read my medical records.” 

Sherlock looked up with an expression of distaste, “No questions.” He shuffled his papers around as John set a cup of water in front of her and put her arm back down. “Blood doesn’t lie.” Mira rolled her shoulders back. “Pardon?” Sherlock stood abruptly and paced near the kitchen’s entrance. “Who are you?” She stopped breathing, “You know who I am. Probably better than I do.” 

“Yes, I do. But who do you pretend to be and why? Your name. It’s a joke.” John leaned quietly against the counter, his arms folded. “So, I changed my name. Lots of people change their names.” Sherlock’s eyes had a fire behind them. “Not as many as you’d think. And not to make themselves into the butt of a joke. You’re not Irish. Your accent is horrific. Not to mention your closet.” 

Mira recoiled from the accusations, letting her accent fall away, “What’s the point of all this, Sherlock?” He zeroed in on the kill, hovering right above her. A smile like a knife cut across his face, “What are you hiding?” The stool screeched as she pushed back. “You know, I didn’t sign up for this shit.” 

“Mira.” John’s soft chiding reminded her of her mother. “What’s your name?” Her fists were clenched by her sides, “My name is Mira now. That’s all that matters.” Sherlock’s smile slipped, “Do you know your father?” She closed her eyes, letting herself sink. “No! Not today. I need you present today. Who is your father?” Her heart startled. 

“I don’t know! I had a mother, an uncle, and a cat! No other family. Why is this so important?” Sherlock and John exchanged a look. “She never spoke about him and it didn’t go so well for me when I asked. I don’t know, Sherlock. Is this why you need my blood?” Mira felt faint, “Have you- do you know him?”

“No. Go lie down. We can talk more later. I need to finish my research.” Sherlock sat down at his work station as John gave her a searching look. “You can take Sherlock’s bed tonight. I doubt he’ll sleep.” Mira pursed her lips and stalked to the back of the flat, her mind buzzing with questions.


	11. Because it Hurts Too Much

“Tell me about Denmark.” Mira had been pretending to sleep for a few minutes while Sherlock sat at the end of the bed. “It was boring. Nothing like London. We vacationed in the lake district… I’ve always wanted to stay here.” Sherlock’s all-seeing eyes didn’t bother her behind her own lids. “Who’s we?” She frowned, “My uncle and me. Mum was too sick to travel. He lived here for a few years before he died.” 

“What was she sick with?” Mira shrugged, “Headaches. She wasn’t very present.” She turned her body away from him, “May I go to sleep now? It was an uneasy night. You’re very loud.” Sherlock left without another word. Something gnawed and clawed at her back. The low growls of her monster sang her into a fitful asleep. 

John banged on the door a few hours later, “Mira? We need your help for a bit. Can you meet us in the sitting room, please? I’ll make you a cuppa.” She huffed, but responded with a sweet, “Yes, of course! One moment.” She rubbed her burning eyes, feeling as if the life had been drained out of them. Her clothes were crumpled on the floor; she pulled them on despite the sharp smell of yesterday’s sweat. Sherlock wrenched the door open, frowning, as she dressed and impatiently pointed to the living room. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m coming.” She said softly with exhaustion evident. 

Her hand found comfort in the jumper pocket as it embraced metal. Mira trailed behind him as he rushed to the front of the flat. “Just there. Clothes on.” Sherlock pointed to the couch. Dutifully she laid and tested the waters of her mind. John was looking over notes at the table. She just made out that Sherlock was going to put coins on her eyes as she swam downwards. A vine-like plant wrapped itself around her left wrist, rubbing gently against her skin. 

Sherlock held her wrist, a pit of fury rising in his stomach. “Sherlock.” John said, warning him to keep his mind on the case. “She has to know something.” John shook his head and chuckled, “Well, maybe you’d know by now if you weren’t such a bastard to her. Mira’s not-“ Sherlock threw his hand out to stop him, dropping her arm. “Don’t say her name. She’ll wake up.” Though ‘wake up’ wasn’t quite what he meant, he didn’t feel like explaining the process. “This is how we’ll get her to respond _and_ remember all those things she chooses to forget…” 

“Sherlock,” John paused, chewing the words, “we’re safe now. You know that right?” He turned to look John in the eyes, “No. And if I’m right, she’s not either.” A tiny snore came from the sofa under Sherlock’s shadow. John came over and plucked the strange coins from her closed eyes, “I’ll need to leave soon. The baby is sick and Mary hasn’t slept since the coughing started.” Sherlock retired to John’s converted bedroom as he sat on the coffee table in front of her. 

“Mira.” John patted her hand. “Mira, wake up.” She jolted away from his touch, “I’m up. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.” He let go, compressing his lips and standing. She fidgeted with her clothes as he looked her over, “I promised tea.” He left her to put the kettle on. “Where is he?” She called out, joining him in the kitchen. “Upstairs. He’s started studying ants. I wouldn’t go up there. Mrs Hudson will have his head when she finds out what he’s done to the room.” Mira looked to the wall with bullet holes and sat down, “She hasn’t yet.” 

“Mira,” John put a teacup in front of both of them, “Tell me about your family.” She tensed, “I’m.. I’m not very comfortable with the subject.” His hands were planted firmly on the counter. Sherlock put her under the microscope, but John seemed to look directly into her soul. She averted her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, thinking that she might feel better standing up. “You can either discuss this with me, or you can have it dragged out of you by him. You’d be very emotional with him. Right now, you can look at it as the facts of your life. No heat-of-the-moment argument. Isn’t that better?” 

She bit her lip, “Yes, I…” The kettle began to whistle as she drew her strength. John let her be as he served them. “What would you like to know?” He smiled down at her, “Why did you leave your home? I’ll try not to interrupt.” Mira fixated her gaze on the light brown liquid. “Mum was always sick. Especially when my uncle was around. But, now that I’m thinking about it, he probably visited _because_ she got worse. To make sure I was okay. He taught me everything I know. She was jealous of our relationship. She used to… say horrible things about me to him so that he would punish me. 

Sometimes I actually did do the things she said, but not usually. That house… I never want to go back to it, and I don’t want my mother to find me. We talk sometimes, but that’s all for now. I change my name every time I move. My uncle was an important man, though I don’t know how or why, just that he had body guards and was rich. His house was- well, anyway, I’m not sure if mum has any connections like that. Never wanted to chance it.” She heaved a sigh. John didn’t dare move or raise another question, opting to let her continue as she became ready. His patience was rewarded minutes later. 

“You know, every time I went to hospital for my pains they thought it was trauma from what she did. They’d- they’d see the scars. I know it’s not real. I’ve been to every doctor, shaman, and witch doctor worth their salt across this damn continent… Knowing there’s nothing wrong doesn’t make it go away.” John’s head tilted, “Sorry, but, what did she do?” The question jerked her out of the past, “Erm, what I said before. Getting Uncle Auggie to punish me. He used a belt on my back, but- but sometimes he’d use the buckle. Hence the scarring… 

Then I’d be confined to my room for a while without food. She was very cruel to me; sometimes drawing it out for a week. My uncle paid for tutors instead of a traditional education since I’m not very,” She hesitated, “smart. And that’s not self-deprecating. I’ve always been poorly at school. But I begged to go back. She didn't have to deal with me during those periods. The tutors would come back when she decided the punishment was over and... They never said anything. My uncle said that it was better for me. But it sort of became self-perpetuating.” Her hand cocooned the blade in her pocket, not enough to draw blood, but to give her focus. “I’m sorry to keep prying, Mira. Are you okay to continue?” His voice remained low and calming. She nodded quickly, trying not to remember the hurts that had festered since childhood. “What do you know about your father?” 

“Nothing. I asked my mother once. She started crying and wouldn’t talk to me for a month.” John mulled that over before persisting, “What about your uncle? Or your mother’s friends? Did you ask your grandparents?” Mira took a deep breath, “My mother hardly left the house, she didn’t have friends that I knew of. As for my grandparents, they’ve been estranged since before I was born. My uncle said they were spiteful people, anyway. He said that I didn’t need a father. I had him. That was the end of the conversation.” John’s look of disappointment kept her from asking why all of this needed to be said. “That’s all. You should sleep. I’ll put the dishes up.”


	12. Let Go!

The dishes clattered into the sink. An unhappy Mira was tasked with cleaning while Sherlock was out on a case. She had started in the kitchen, wearing a day old dress. Her conversation with John had not changed the situation much. She was sure that Sherlock still, on some level, believed she knew more than she let on. Mostly, he ignored her, but yesterday he sent for her again. Keeping up the illusion for the media. 

_Earn your money._

“Bah humbug.” She threw another plate into the sink as she tidied up. “Good tidings to you, as well.” A melodic voice wafted from the sitting room. She pivoted to face the man, “Who are you?” Fear was evident in her voice. He was tall, with a smart suit and well groomed. “Time to go, Miss O’Meara. Sherlock Holmes has had more than enough of your services.” 

“He told me to stay here.” She tried to sound sure, but her voice wavered. “Playtime is over. You need to stay away. I’ll have two times the amount he’s given you in total wired to your account.” Mira’s thoughts buzzed, “I don’t have an account at any bank.” The man raised his eye brows, “I believe you _do_.” With a raspy breath, she clutched her chest. This man knew her true identity. 

“Who are you?” She wheezed. “Your nightmare if you make me. If you don’t follow me now I can link you to robbery, arson, murder, or all three. You could be imprisoned for the rest of your worthless life. Sherlock Holmes needs to be left alone.” He moved a pace forward with every threat as she backed against the sink, still full with dishes and suds. “You’re serious. If you know about me, then you must know I didn’t ask for any of this.”

He sighed, sensing a monologue when they had three and a half minutes to vacate before the schedule was thrown off. His schedule was always compromised where Sherlock was involved. “He won’t leave me alone. Even if I move, he’ll be able to find me.” The man gave a toothy and dangerous smile, “You’ve disappeared before. I expect you can do it again.” Mira drew a shuddering breath, her hand still clutching the front of her dress. “Let me grab my coat. 

Later, as she entered her wasteland of a flat, she took notice of a large stack of money on her coffee table. She turned off her phone and stored the notes in the drawer with her other dirty deeds. 

_Ignore his text messages._

_Do not contact him at all._

_Stay away._

Mira stumbled through the flat to her bed and collapsed. Anxiety leaked through her pores and paranoia bound her limbs. She slept and worried. She wondered and she slept. She slept through rain and visitor’s knocks. On the fourth day she took a shower and turned on her phone. 

**Not much of a maid. -SH**

**Baker Street. Now. -SH**

**John told me about your past. -SH**

**If you insist on being a child, I’ll be forced to retrieve you. -SH**

**John is worried. Answer his calls. -SH**

She had plenty of missed calls, but her voicemail box had already been full. She wouldn’t have been able to listen without caving, anyway. A decorative pillow dug uncomfortably into her side as she laid on the sofa. Her stomach had not stop reminding her how much she needed to eat, nor had the pounding headache. But at least her back was fine. As long as she focused, she would be fine. 


End file.
